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Spread open on Chip's kitchen counter was the section of the Times in which he'd circled all the uppercase Ms. Rediscovering this artifact now, hours later, would have been like remembering a dream except that a remembered dream didn't have the power to pull a waking person back into it, whereas th…

Earlier in the day, while killing some hours by circling in blue ballpoint ink every uppercase M in the front section of a month-old New York Times, Chip had concluded that he was behaving like a depressed person. Now, as his telephone began to ring, it occurred to him that a depressed person ought…

It was the morning of Thanksgiving. The flurries had stopped and the sun was halfway out. A gull's wings rattled and clacked. The breeze had a ruffly quality, it didn't quite seem to touch the ground. Chip sat on a freezing guardrail and smoked and took comfort in the sturdy mediocrity of American …

Melissa's accusations had cut him to the quick. He'd never quite realized how seriously he'd taken his father's injunction to do work that was "useful" to society. Criticizing a sick culture, even if the criticism accomplished nothing, had always felt like useful work. But if the supposed sickness …

The weather wasn't doing him any favors. He raised the shades and beach light poured into the classroom. Summerlust came wafting off the bared arms and legs of boys and girls alike.